MAY 16, 2024 – (Cont.) The third set of neighbors to occupy our old house next door were the Kuhlmeys—Mr. and Mrs., their grown son who’d been on his own before the Kuhlmeys move-in, and their very young son. Our family had very little interaction with these people, largely because they seemed to have little interest in getting to know us. They were people with exteriors that were at once ostensibly respectable but frustratingly unrevealing, at least from my young perspective.
“Kuhlmey”—the only way I ever heard Dad refer to the mister—worked for the county highway department. As I remember, his wife worked in an office of some (Anoka) county agency. Kuhlmey drove a blue, nearly black pick-up truck equipped with a snowplow in the winter and in all seasons, a very fancy K as part of a coat of arms emblazoned on the side of each door. If you sneaked up on the truck, as my curiosity compelled me to do one day, you saw the full “Kuhlmey” name incorporated into the meticulously painted heraldic seal. I thought the design, colors, and proportions of the embellishment reflected a certain element of incongruous refinement on the part of the truck’s owner.
The only other impressions that I was afforded of the guy concerned his battle with an old lilac bush and his offer of a ride in his coat-of-arms truck when the wind chill was a million below zero.
Since the beginning of time, the lilac bush had grown near the front corner of the attached garage. The shrub had minded its own business since its inception. Apart from occasional pruning, it required no special maintenance and was out of everyone’s way. For some reason, however, Kuhlmey took issue with it. He started by cutting the multiple base stems and branches right off at the ground. Good for him, except this radical action spurred a burst of growth. Angered by nature’s comeback, Kuhlmey proceeded to drive his truck over the lilac bush—and leave the vehicle parked there until the next day, when he’d ride roughshod over the bush again and park. That violent process also failed to defeat the plucky shrub. But the man wasn’t about to accept defeat either. Out came the gasoline can and matches.
When Dad found out about it, he called “Kuhlmey” an idiot. “He coulda set the whole garage and house on fire,” Dad said, stating the obvious but with a tone of condemnation. I was shocked by Kuhlmey’s application of gas and matches to the “problem” lilac bush. His method reminded me of his predecessor, Roger Schipper, who’d deployed the same means in his battle with nature. At least Roger had confined “playing with fire” to leaves raked into the street gutter.
One day the next winter Kuhlmey redeemed himself somewhat, at least in my book. The temperature was in sub-zero (F) territory, and a harsh wind drove the wind chill dangerously low. Pretending I was crossing northern Greenland and enjoying every step of the thrill, I was in fact walking down Green Avenue toward Rice from Marvin’s Barber Shop up on Main. I still had about a quarter mile to go, when Kuhlmey pulled up, reached over and rolled down the passenger window. “Wanna ride?” he shouted into the wind.
I was within sight of the eastern coast of Greenland at that point and wanted to stay on track toward my goal—our back door—but on the other hand, it was the first time that Mr. Kuhlmey had said anything to me beyond a gruff acknowledgment whenever I said, “Hi.” I took his ride offer as a gesture of good will and decided that my acceptance would be a show of reciprocal good will. The ride was short, but long enough to exchange a few simple sentences—about the weather, my appreciation for the ride, his breezy dismissal of the favor’s significance. “Ah, it was nothin’” he said. “It’s what neighbors do.” (Cont.)
Subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
